by Cap Daniels
We low-crawled toward the door and peered inside. I saw the heels of two men ascending the stairs and one man still standing in the opening formed by the front door. I’d been wrong about my count. The man by the door made three. In less than a minute, the two men I’d watched climb the stairs came back down and headed for the front. Although I couldn’t hear what they were saying, it was clear Gregor Norikov was dismissing the men for the night.
He looked younger than his seventy years and fitter than I expected. The woman on his arm was, indeed, a world-class beauty. In her heels, she was an inch taller than the old communist, and her blonde hair fell perfectly down her shapely back. Gregor removed her floor-length fur coat and placed it on an antique hall tree by the door. The woman’s dress probably cost more than the average Russian family’s annual income.
She slid off her heels, reducing her height by three inches, and left them by the door. The woman placed two glasses side by side on the countertop and dropped ice cubes into each. Never taking her eyes from Gregor, she covered the ice with vodka and then offered him the glass. He greedily accepted, and she poured half the contents of her own drink into her mouth. Her diamond-adorned hand then slid around Gregor’s neck as she pressed her painted red lips to his. The vodka found its way from her mouth, into his, and then down his throat.
Clark whispered, “We should try that later.”
I shook my head. “Sure, but that shade of lipstick would look terrible on you.”
When the vodka-laced kiss ended, the pair headed for the stairs. I was thankful our opportunity to get back inside the house and out of the cold was approaching. I slid my pick set from my pocket and inserted the tensioning arm into the lock, but before I could begin putting pressure against the tool, Clark reached for the knob and gave it a twist. The door swung inward on its hinges, revealing the fact that the so-called security team would never qualify as tier-one operators.
We removed our coats and gloves but left our watch caps in place to hide our faces. As we approached the stairs, we could already hear the woman having either the greatest night of her life, or demonstrating her Oscar-worthy acting skills. Either way, we were confident Gregor was focused entirely on the woman’s performance. We crept up the stairs in silence and made our way to a pair of alcoves outside the master suite, well out of sight of the bed.
The woman’s vocal extravaganza went on for twenty minutes, punctuated at random intervals with ecstatic cries of soul-shaking pleasure.
If that’s real, I need to get some tips from old Gregor.
Finally, I heard the woman collapse in apparent exhaustion following dinosaur noises from Gregor. I didn’t want to imagine what that looked like. Clark was trying not to laugh but doing a poor job of it.
Although her Russian was terrible, the woman shoveled compliments on the communist Casanova, who was still breathing like he was on the verge of a heart attack. In a mix of Swedish and painful Russian, the woman said something about how much she liked going out to the club after a night with Gregor so all the other men would know, just by looking at her, what he’d done for her.
Norikov either bought the lie or didn’t care. I suspect his Swedish was just as bad as mine, but there was no mistaking his Russian. “Take all of my money and go dance until you drop dead for all I care. Just don’t you dare let any other man do to you what I just did. Do you understand?”
“Da, moy dorogoy,” she said.
“Do not call me darling, you whore. I am nothing more than your banker. Now, get out!”
We tucked ourselves further into our holes and waited for the woman to come through the door. We didn’t have to wait long. Even after what she’d been through for the past half hour, she was still a knock-out. Being a seventy-year-old Russian oligarch has its benefits, but I think being a twenty-seven-year-old American spy in love with Penny Thomas trumped anything Miss Sweden could dish out.
The woman made a brief phone call, poured four fingers of vodka into an iceless glass, and then downed it in one shot. She stepped into her high heels, pulled on her coat, and danced through the front door. I locked eyes with Clark as he pointed to his watch and then held up five fingers. I was thankful those five minutes would be spent in the warmth of the house and not huddling in the bushes by the river.
Three minutes later, the sound of a snoring buffalo came rolling from the bedroom. Gregor was out, and it was time to party.
Chapter 22
Rules of Negotiation
I slid the muzzle of my pistol into Gregor Norikov’s mouth, and in the most feminine Russian tone I could force out of my throat, I said, “Wake up, darling.”
He didn’t move a muscle.
I tried again in a slightly more aggressive and less feminine tone. “Wake up, asshole!”
Clark, who had already lost his patience, launched a lamp against the headboard, sending shards of porcelain against Norikov’s face. Even our favorite snoring buffalo couldn’t sleep through that.
He sprang upward, forcing the barrel of my pistol deeper into his mouth until he gagged and reflexively grabbed for the gun. I caught his left hand, and Clark seized his right as I withdrew the pistol from his mouth. Each of us twisted a wrist half an inch further than wrists can be comfortably twisted. With panic-filled eyes, the man groaned in pain. It was safe to say we had Norikov’s attention.
“Hello, Gregor,” I said as cheerfully as possible. “I’m sorry to wake you like this, but we have some things we need to discuss.”
“Kto ty, chert voz’mi?” he roared.
“Who we are isn’t important, Gregor. What is important is who we have,” I said. “When was the last time you saw your beautiful daughter, Ekaterina?”
In that tone old communists are so good at using, he roared, “If you hurt my daughter—”
I stuck the gun back in his mouth. “We’ll be making the threats tonight, Gregor. You’ll be listening and giving us what we want. Now, I’m going to take my gun back out of your mouth, and you’re going to be a good little boy, aren’t you?”
His eyes narrowed in rage, and Clark added enough additional pressure to his wrist to garner submission from almost anyone, especially a naked, seventy-year-old communist.
His face morphed from defiant to compliant in an instant.
“That’s the look I want to see,” I said. “I think you’re starting to get the picture, Gregor. You’re not in charge anymore.”
Clark eased the pressure, and I did the same.
Norikov’s face relaxed, and his shoulders sagged. “What do you want?”
“It’s not what we want. It’s what our superiors want. We’re just low-level implements—sharp tools you might even say. We’re just the people who do the dirty work our bosses don’t want to soil their hands with.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a girl who looks a lot like your daughter. You see, she’s in the Black Dolphin Prison. That’s a men’s prison, Greg. And that’s no place for a beautiful young woman.”
He shook his head. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“In that case,” I said, “you’re of absolutely no use to us, and we’ll have to kill you and Captain Ekaterina Norikova. Thanks for your time.” I released his wrist, holstered my pistol, and backed away from the bed. I pretended to press a few buttons on my sat-phone. “Go ahead and shoot him in the head. I’m ordering our friends to do the same to his daughter.”
Clark raised his pistol to the man’s temple.
I said into the phone, “Kill the girl. Norikov can’t help us.”
“Stop! I’ll do it!” Gregor cried out. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”
I put the phone back to my ear. “Belay my last order…temporarily.”
Clark shoved two fingers up Norikov’s nose and pulled him from the bed. “Get up, you piece of shit. If you tell us no one more time or refuse anything we demand one more time, there will be no more second chances. You’ll die, your daughter will die, and we’ll simply move up the chain until
we find someone powerful enough to give us what we want.”
Clark’s negotiating tactics weren’t necessarily diplomatic, but he had a way of getting his point across while leaving no room for misunderstanding. The fact that there was no chain and we had no leverage against anyone but Norikov didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting Anya out of the Black Dolphin Prison at any cost.
Norikov had no choice but to follow Clark or have his nose ripped from his face. He chose wisely and let Clark stand him up beside the bed.
Negotiating 101 for spies is a simple course. The rules are these: 1. Dominate the environment. 2. Physically control the subject. 3. Humiliate if possible. 4. Make demands and accept nothing short of full compliance. Oh, and 5. Have fun while doing it.
We’d dominated the environment by invading Norikov’s home and specifically his bedroom. Our environmental dominance in that case was expanded by the make-believe phone call to have his daughter killed. The physical control was covered by the nearly broken wrists, mouth wounds from my gun barrel, and leading him around by his nose. We’d accomplished the humiliation by standing the man beside his own bed, completely naked, and in fear for his life. It was time for the demands.
I looked the man up and down, intentionally laughing as I did. Okay, maybe I was still applying the humiliation step, but I was also starting to have a little fun. “I’ll confess that I don’t know much about you, Gregor, but I know I have your full attention. You know even less about me, but you do know I won’t hesitate to kill both you and your daughter if you hiccup one more time. That’s all you need to know about me.”
I picked at my front teeth and then pretended to look at an imaginary speck on my fingertip. “Well, there is one more thing you probably need to know about me.”
I took three steps toward him until we were inches apart. I towered over him by eight inches and wasn’t going to let that fact be lost on him.
His hatred for me returned to his eyes.
I whispered, “Remember Colonel Victor Tornovich? I set him on fire and watched him burn while screaming like a terrified child. Then I shot him in the head, Gregor. That was me.”
More environmental dominance…and a little fun.
I licked my lips and took a step back. “So, here’s what you’re going to do.” I paused and glanced around the room. “Do you need a pen and paper, or can you remember this?”
Clark chuckled as if we’d rehearsed the act. “I think he’ll remember.”
I cleared my throat. “You’re going to have Anastasia Burinkova released from the Black Dolphin. You have ten hours to make that happen.”
Clark chimed in right on cue. “Why does he have just ten hours?”
“I’m glad you asked,” I said, and stepped back into Norikov’s face. “You have ten hours because that’s the number of fingers your daughter has, and I’m going to have one finger cut off every extra hour Anya spends in that prison. And when I run out of fingers…Well, Gregor, do I really have to tell you what I’m going to do when I run out of fingers? I would include her nine toes in the party, but keeping her alive for nineteen hours in that much pain would be cruel. Don’t you think, Gregor?”
“Okay, okay. I will make it happen, but it will take several hours,” he said.
“That’s fine. Take all the time you want. I’m sure Ekaterina will understand. I think I’ll start with the thumbs. Those are particularly handy digits. Aren’t they, Gregor?”
“Please don’t hurt my daughter.”
As Marlon Brando did in The Godfather, I patted his face several times. “I’m not the one who’s hurting your daughter, Greg. You’re the one who’s taking his time. You might even say you’re giving your own daughter the finger.”
Clark laughed again.
Norikov sighed, apparently realizing he was out of options. “Okay, just let me use the telephone.”
“Now you’re starting to grasp the sense of urgency of the situation. I knew you were smarter than they said you were. Sure, go ahead. Make the call. Just keep in mind, my Russian is strong, so be very careful what you say.”
“May I?” he asked, pointing to the phone on the nightstand.
I motioned to the phone with my palm up. The next two seconds were the longest seconds of my life.
Instead of reaching for the phone, Norikov turned his back to me, reached behind the nightstand, and drew a Makarov pistol. He stuck the gun under his left arm and blindly sent two rounds toward Clark. I threw a front kick to Norikov’s kidney, sending him careening forward. His right shoulder hit the massive headboard and spun him toward me. Although I was ultra-focused on Norikov, I heard Clark bellow in pain. I wanted to see how badly my partner was wounded, but taking my eyes off my target would’ve been a fatal mistake. Another shot rang out from Norikov’s pistol, and the bullet grazed the top of my left ear. It took what felt like an eternity to draw my gun, but I pulled my trigger twice, sidestepped to the right, and then squeezed off two more rounds.
The naked man melted to the floor, wedged between the bed and nightstand, and a pool of blood formed around him. I turned my attention immediately to Clark, who was grasping his left side with his right hand and hopping on one foot, cursing every other breath.
“How badly are you hit?”
He raised his hand to reveal a few ounces of blood. “It’s not going to kill me, but it hurts like hell.”
Though my ears were ringing like church bells, the next sound I heard was unmistakable. From downstairs came the Swedish-accented, terrible Russian, “Is everything okay, sweetheart?”
Clark and I cast our eyes toward the door, and he ordered, “Get her!”
I sprinted from the bedroom and down the staircase just as she started up. The look on the woman’s beautiful face when she saw me, dressed in black with a watch cap pulled down over my face, was one of sheer terror. She screamed, spun on one foot, and bolted for the front door.
I launched my body forward, covering eight steps per stride, and caught her just as her trembling hand grasped the doorknob. My momentum carried the two of us face-first into the heavy oak door, and she collapsed in my arms, unconscious.
I checked her pulse, and she was alive but out cold. I lifted her from the floor and placed her on one of the sofas near the fireplace. In seconds, I was back in Norikov’s bedroom, where Clark was still grabbing his wounded side and lighting candles.
“What are you doing?”
He glanced up. “Covering our tracks. Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. What do you mean, covering our tracks?”
“Did you kill the girl?”
“No, she’s unconscious on the couch,” I said. “How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s a through-and-through above my left hip. There’s nothing much to hit there. We’re lucky he wasn’t shooting hollow-points.”
I checked his wound and discovered small trickles of blood coming from the entry and exit wounds. I found a roll of tape and stuck a field-expedient bandage in place until we could get some time and distance between us and that house.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Clark pointed to the girl. “Find something to wrap her with. I’m turning on the gas.”
“You’re doing what?”
“Just find a big, heavy blanket and wrap her up.”
I did as he said, and watched him yank the stove from the wall and disconnect the gas line, leaving the metallic hose to spray natural gas into the house. The candles he lit upstairs were beginning to make sense.
We put on our coats and gloves, and I carried the well-wrapped Swedish beauty over my shoulder, oblivious to the near-zero temperature as we headed for the dock. We soon had the boat hauled in with minimal effort.
“What are we going to do with her?” I said.
Clark looked over her cocoon-like form. “We can’t leave her here. This place will be a fireball in no time. Hit her with your tranquilizer. We don’t need her waking up in the middle of this.”
I followed him
aboard the boat and carried the Swede into the pilothouse. I had no idea what the drug would do to an unconscious, already drunk woman, but he was right—her waking up was not an option.
I drew out a few CCs of ketamine and sank the syringe into her thigh. Thirty seconds later, I was hauling the anchor chain in with the manual windlass. The hundred feet of anchor rode still in the water would take far too long to get aboard, so I opened the brake on the windlass and let the chain play out until the bitter end ran overboard and sank to the bottom of the river.
Clark eased the throttles forward as soon as the chain hit the water, and I carefully made my way back to the pilothouse on the cold metal deck.
Without a word, we motored downstream past the Kremlin, through the heart of Moscow, in the bitter night air, with Norikov’s girlfriend breathing deeply and never offering to stir. The lights of the massive city kept us from seeing Norikov’s house go up in flames, but the fire was inevitable.
The house wasn’t the only thing going up in smoke that night. I’d watched any chance of getting Anya out of prison melt into a bloody heap. The thought of her dying in the unthinkable conditions of the Black Dolphin was more than I could bear. With my jaw clenched and fury rising in my chest, I drove my fist into the wooden hatch leading to the forward cabin. Splintered wood flew in every direction, and the remains of the hatch swung loosely on the single hinge.
Clark watched my tantrum but didn’t say a word. There was no question in my mind that he understood everything I was feeling, and that he had undoubtedly had his share of outbursts over the years.
He finally put his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s find a place to leave the girl.”
The lights of an industrial dock came into view on the south side of the river. “How about there?” I said. “Surely somebody will find her there before she freezes to death.”
He pointed the boat toward the dock, and we were soon pulling away with one less soul on board, but still without a plan.
“Obviously, the train back to Riga isn’t an option,” Clark said, “and the Moscow River to the west turns into a creek before we could get anywhere meaningful.”